I, Mona Lisa Read online

  Giuliano followed tentatively but, being younger, fell behind. He watched as Lorenzo took a great gulp of air and disappeared beneath the gray surface. When he did not reappear immediately, Giuliano treaded water and laughed, expecting his brother to swim beneath him and grasp his foot at any moment.

  Seconds passed. Giuliano’s laughter turned to silence, then fear—then he began to call for his brother. On the shore, the women—unable to enter the water because of their heavy skirts—began to cry out in panic.

  Giuliano was only a child. He had not yet overcome his fear of diving beneath the water, yet love for his brother drove him to suck in a deep breath and submerge himself. The silence there astonished him; he opened his eyes and peered in the direction where Lorenzo had been.

  The river was muddy from the previous day’s rains; Giuliano’s eyes stung as he searched. He could see nothing but a large, irregular dark shape some distance away, deep beneath the waters. It was not human—not Lorenzo—but it was all that was visible, and instinct told him to approach it. He surfaced, drew in more air, then compelled himself to dive down again.

  There, the length of three tall men beneath the surface, lay the craggy limbs of a fallen tree.

  Giuliano’s lungs burned, yet his sense that Lorenzo was nearby made him push against the quiet water. With a final, painful burst, he reached the sunken branches and pressed a palm against the slick surface of the trunk.

  At once, he grew remarkably dizzy, and heard a rushing in his ears; he shut his eyes and opened his mouth, gasping for air. There was none to be had, and so he drank in the foul Arno. He retched it up at once; then reflex forced him to gulp in more.

  Giuliano was drowning.

  Though a child, he understood clearly that he was dying. The realization prompted him to open his eyes, to capture a last glimpse of Earth that he might take with him to Heaven.

  At that instant, a cloud moved overhead, permitting a shaft of sunlight to pierce the river so thoroughly that it caused the silt suspended in the water to glitter, and illumined the area directly before Giuliano’s eyes.

  Staring back at him, an arm’s length away, was the drowning Lorenzo. His tunic and mantle had been caught on an errant branch, and he had twisted himself about in a mad effort to be free.

  Both brothers should have died then. But Giuliano prayed, with a child’s guilelessness: God, let me save my brother.

  Impossibly, he had pulled the tangled clothing loose from the branch.

  Impossibly, the freed Lorenzo had seized Giuliano’s hands and pulled the two of them up to the surface.

  From there, Giuliano’s memory became blurred. He remembered only snippets: of himself vomiting on the grassy shore while the slave woman pounded his back; of Lorenzo wet and shivering, wrapped in picnic linens; of voices calling out: Brother, speak to me! Of Lorenzo in the carriage on the ride home, furious, fighting tears: Don’t ever risk yourself for me! You almost died! Father would never forgive me! . . . But the unspoken message was louder: Lorenzo would never forgive himself.

  Recalling the incident, Giuliano swallowed wine without tasting it. He would have gladly surrendered his life to save Lorenzo’s—just as easily and thoughtlessly as Lorenzo would have sacrificed himself to save his younger brother. It seemed to Giuliano a mockery that God had given him such a gift as Anna’s love—only to require him to wound the man he loved most.

  Giuliano sat for hours, watching the darkness of night deepen, then slowly fade to gray with the coming of dawn, and the day he was to leave for Rome. He sat until the arrival of his insistent visitors, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. He could not imagine why the visiting Cardinal should care so passionately about Giuliano’s presence at Mass; but if Lorenzo had asked him to come, then that was good enough reason to do so.

  He hoped, with sudden optimism, that Lorenzo might have changed his mind, that his anger had faded and left him more receptive to discussion.

  Thus Giuliano rallied himself and, like a good brother, came as he was bidden.

  V

  Baroncelli hesitated at the door of the cathedral as his objectivity briefly returned to him. Here was a chance to flee fate; a chance, before an alarm could be sounded, to run home to his estate, to mount his horse and head for any kingdom where neither the conspirators nor their victims had influence. The Pazzi were powerful and persistent, capable of mounting efforts to hunt him down—but they were neither as well connected nor as dogged as the Medici.

  In the lead, Francesco had turned and goaded Baroncelli on with a murderous glance. Giuliano, still distracted by a private sorrow, was heedless and, flanked by the uncertain Baroncelli, followed Francesco inside. Baroncelli felt he had just crossed the threshold from reason into madness.

  Inside, the smoke-filmed air was redolent with frankincense and sweat. The sanctuary’s massive interior was dim, save for the area surrounding the altar, which was dazzling in the late morning light streaming from the long arched windows of the cupola.

  Again taking the least noticeable path along the north side, Francesco headed toward the altar, followed closely by Giuliano, then Baroncelli. Baroncelli could have closed his eyes and found his way by smell, measuring the stench of the poor and working class, the lavender scent of the merchants, and the rose of the wealthy.

  Even before he caught sight of the priest, Baroncelli could hear him delivering his homily. The realization quickened Baroncelli’s pulse; they had arrived barely in time, for the Eucharist was soon to follow.

  After the interminable walk down the aisle, Baroncelli and his companions arrived at the front row of men. They murmured apologies as they sidled back to their original places. An instant of confusion came as Baroncelli tried to move past Giuliano, so that he could stand on his right, the position dictated by the plan. Giuliano, not understanding Baroncelli’s intent, pressed closer to Francesco—who then whispered something in the young man’s ear. Giuliano nodded, stepped backward, and made an opening for Baroncelli; in so doing, he grazed the shoulder of the penitent, who stood waiting behind him.

  Both Francesco de’ Pazzi and Baroncelli watched, breathless, to see whether Giuliano would turn and make apology—and perhaps recognize the man. But Giuliano remained lost in his own misery.

  Baroncelli craned his neck to look farther down the row, to see if Lorenzo had noticed; fortunately, the elder Medici brother was busy bending an ear to a whispered comment from the manager of the family bank, Francesco Nori.

  Miraculously, all of the elements were now in place. Baroncelli had nothing to do save wait—and pretend to listen to the sermon while keeping his hand from wandering to the hilt at his hip.

  The priest’s words seemed nonsensical; Baroncelli strained to understand them. Forgiveness, the prelate intoned. Charity. Love thine enemies; pray for those who persecute you.

  Baroncelli’s mind seized upon these phrases. Lorenzo de’ Medici had picked this Sunday’s priest himself. Did Lorenzo know of the plot? Were these seemingly innocuous words a warning not to proceed?

  Baroncelli glanced over at Francesco de’ Pazzi. If Francesco had detected a secret message, he gave no sign of it; he stared straight ahead at the altar, his gaze unfocused but his eyes wide, bright with fear and hatred. A muscle in his narrow jaw twitched madly.

  The sermon ended.

  The elements of the Mass proceeded with almost comical swiftness: The Creed was sung. The priest chanted the Dominus vobiscum and Oremus. The Host was consecrated with the prayer Suscipe, sancte Pater.

  Baroncelli drew in a breath and thought he would never be able to release it. The ceremony abruptly slowed; in his ears, he could feel the desperate thrum of his heart.

  The priest’s assistant approached the altar to fill the golden chalice with wine; a second assistant added a small amount of water from a crystal decanter.

  At last, the priest took the chalice. Carefully, he lifted it heavenward, proffering it to the large wooden carving of a dolorous, crucified Christ suspended
above the altar.

  Baroncelli’s gaze followed the cup. A shaft of sunlight caught the gold and reflected blindingly off the metal.

  Again, the priest chanted, in a wavering tenor that sounded vaguely accusatory.

  Offerimus tibi, Domine . . .

  Baroncelli turned to look at the younger Medici next to him. Giuliano’s expression was grave, his eyes closed. His right hand was clenched in a fist; his left hand clasped it, and both were pressed tightly to his lips. His head was bowed, as if he were preparing to greet Death.

  This is foolish, Baroncelli thought. He had no personal enmity toward this man; indeed, he liked Giuliano, who had never asked to be born a Medici. His quarrel with him was purely political, and certainly not great enough to warrant what he was about to do.

  Francesco de’ Pazzi jabbed Baroncelli fiercely in the ribs, relating the unspoken message perfectly: The signal has been given! The signal has been given!

  Baroncelli released a reluctant, inaudible sigh and drew his great knife from its hilt.

  VI

  A moment earlier, Lorenzo de’ Medici was engaged in courteous but muted conversation with Cardinal Raffaele Riario. Although the priest was finishing up his sermon, the wealthy power brokers of Florence thought nothing of discussing matters of pleasure or business—sotto voce—during Mass. The social opportunity was simply too great to ignore, and the priests had long ago become inured to it.

  A scrawny lad, Riario looked younger than his seventeen years, and though he was currently a student of law at the University of Pisa, his enrollment there was clearly due more to his kinship with Pope Sixtus than any native intelligence.

  Nephew, Sixtus called him. It was the euphemism by which popes and cardinals sometimes referred to their bastard children. The Pope was an extremely clever man, but obviously had got this boy on a woman with charms other than beauty or brains.

  Even so, Lorenzo was obliged to show the young Cardinal a fine time while he was visiting Florence. Riario had specifically asked to meet with the Medici brothers and to be given a tour of their property and collection of art; Lorenzo could not refuse. This was the Pope’s so-called nephew—and although Lorenzo had endured public humiliation at Sixtus’ hands, even been forced to hold his tongue while the Medici were replaced by the Pazzi as the papal bankers—perhaps this was an overture. Perhaps Sixtus was trying to make amends, and this gangly young creature in scarlet robes was his emissary.

  Lorenzo was eager to return to the family palace to ascertain whether this was indeed the case; otherwise, the Cardinal’s visit would irritate him greatly, if Sixtus was simply taking brazen advantage of Lorenzo’s generosity. It would be another insult.

  But in case it was not, Lorenzo had called for a magnificent feast to be served after Mass in honor of the Cardinal. And if it happened that young Raffaele had come only out of a desire to enjoy the Medici art, he could at least report to his uncle that Lorenzo had treated him lavishly and well. It could serve as a diplomatic opening, one that Lorenzo would use to full advantage, for he was determined to reclaim the papal coffers from the clutches of the Pazzi Bank.

  And so Lorenzo practiced his most gracious behavior, even though Francesco Salviati, Archbishop of Pisa, stood smiling disingenuously on Riario’s other flank. Lorenzo had no personal quarrel with Salviati, though he had fought long and bitterly against his appointment as archbishop. As she was controlled by Florence, Pisa deserved an archbishop of Medici blood—and Salviati was related to the Pazzi, who already were gaining too much favor with the Pope. While the Medici and the Pazzi publicly embraced one another as friends, in the arena of business and politics, there were no fiercer adversaries. Lorenzo had written an impassioned letter to Sixtus, explaining why appointment of a Pazzi relative as Archbishop would be disastrous to papal and Medici interests.

  Sixtus not only failed to respond, he ultimately dismissed the Medici as his bankers.

  Most would consider the papal request that Riario and Salviati be treated as honored guests a stinging blow to Medici dignity. But Lorenzo, ever the diplomat, welcomed them. And he insisted that his dear friend and senior manager of the Medici Bank, Francesco Nori, show not the slightest sign of offense. Nori, who stood beside him now in silent support, was desperately protective of Lorenzo. When the news came from Rome that the Pazzi had been appointed the papal bankers and the Medici were ousted, Nori had raged incessantly. Lorenzo had been obliged to calm his employee, though he had held his own anger in check, and spoke little of the affair. He could not afford the energy; he was already too busy scheming how he might win Sixtus back.

  So he had exchanged pleasantries with the young Cardinal throughout the service and, from a distance, smiled a greeting to the Pazzi, who were in full attendance. Most of them had gathered at the other side of the cathedral, except for Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, who stuck to the Archbishop’s side like a burr. Lorenzo honestly liked Guglielmo; he had known him since he, Lorenzo, was a boy of sixteen, when Guglielmo had escorted him to Naples to meet Crown Prince Federigo. The older man had treated him like a son then, and Lorenzo had never forgotten. In time, Guglielmo married Lorenzo’s older sister, Bianca, strengthening his position as a friend to the Medici.

  At the start of the sermon, the boy Cardinal gave a strange, sickly smile and whispered, “Your brother . . . where is your brother? I thought surely he would come to Mass. I had so hoped to meet him.”

  The question took Lorenzo by surprise. Although Giuliano had made polite noises about coming to the Mass in order to meet Cardinal Riario, Lorenzo felt certain no one, least of all Giuliano, had taken the promise seriously. The most famous womanizer in Florence, Giuliano was notorious for his failure to appear at formal or diplomatic functions—unless Lorenzo insisted vehemently upon it. (Certainly he had not done so here.) Giuliano had already proclaimed himself unable to attend the luncheon.

  Lorenzo had been thoroughly taken aback the previous day when Giuliano had announced his desire to run off to Rome with a married woman. Up to that point, Giuliano had taken none of his lovers very seriously; he had never spouted such foolishness before and certainly had never spoken of marriage. It had always been understood that, when the time came, Lorenzo would choose his bride and Giuliano would submit.

  But Giuliano had been adamant about getting the woman an annulment—an achievement which, if Cardinal Riario had. not come as a papal overture, was well beyond Lorenzo’s grasp.

  Lorenzo was frightened for his younger brother. Giuliano was too trusting, too willing to see the good in others, to realize he had many enemies—enemies who hated him solely for the fact he had been born a Medici. He could not see, as Lorenzo did, that they would use this affair with Anna to tear him down.

  Giuliano, the sweet soul, thought only of love. Though it had been necessary, Lorenzo had not relished being cruel to him. And he could not blame Giuliano for his noble view of the tender sex. At times, he yearned for the freedom his younger brother enjoyed. This morning Lorenzo particularly envied him; would that he could linger in the arms of a beautiful woman and let Giuliano deal with the Pope’s nephew—who was still gazing politely at Lorenzo, waiting to learn the whereabouts of his wayward brother.

  It would be impolitic to tell the Cardinal the truth—that Giuliano had never really intended to come to Mass, or meet Riario—and so instead Lorenzo indulged in a polite lie. “My brother must have been detained. Surely he will be here soon; I know he is eager to meet Your Holiness.”

  Riario blinked; his girlish lips thinned.

  Ah, Lorenzo thought. Perhaps young Raffaele’s interest was more than superficially diplomatic. Giuliano’s handsomeness was legendary, and he had stirred the passions of at least as many men as women.

  Guglielmo de’ Pazzi leaned across the Archbishop and gave the Cardinal an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Have no fear, Holiness. He will come. The Medici always treat their guests well.”

  Lorenzo smiled warmly at him; Guglielmo dropped his gaze without meeting
Lorenzo’s and gave a quick nod of acknowledgment, but did not return the smile. The gesture seemed odd, but Lorenzo was at once distracted by Francesco Nori’s whisper.

  “Maestro. . . . your brother has just arrived.”

  “Alone?”

  Nori glanced briefly to his left, at the north side of the sacristy. “He has come with Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. I do not like the look of it.”

  Lorenzo frowned; he did not care for it, either. He had already greeted Francesco and Baroncelli when he had first entered the cathedral. His diplomatic instincts took hold of him, however; he inclined his head toward Raffaele Riario and said softly, “You see, Holiness? My brother has indeed come.”

  Beside him, Cardinal Riario leaned forward, looked to his left, and caught sight of Giuliano. He gave Lorenzo an odd, tremulous grin, then with a snap of his head, forced his gaze back to the altar, where the priest was blessing the sacred Host.

  The lad’s movement was so peculiar, so nervous, that Lorenzo felt a faint stirring of anxiety. Florence was always full of rumors, most of which he ignored; but Nori had recently reported that Lorenzo was in danger, that an attack was being planned against him. As usual, Nori could offer no specifics.

  Ridiculous, Lorenzo had scoffed. There will always be whispers, but we are the Medici. The Pope himself might insult us, but even he dare not lift his hand against us.

  Now, he felt a pang of doubt. Beneath the cover of his mantle, he fingered the hilt of his short sword, then gripped it tightly.

  Only seconds later, a shout came from the direction Riario had glanced—a man’s voice, the words unintelligible, impassioned. Immediately after, the bells of Giotto’s campanile began to toll.

  Lorenzo knew at once that Nori’s so-called rumors were fact.

  The front two rows of men broke rank, and the scene became a clumsy dance of moving bodies. In the near distance, a woman screamed. Salviati disappeared; the young Cardinal flung himself at the altar and knelt, sobbing uncontrollably. Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, clearly terrified, began wringing his hands and wailing. “I am no traitor! I knew nothing of this! Nothing! Before God, Lorenzo, I am completely innocent!”